Gnōthi Seauton
by aszecsei
Summary: Dexter was content.  Now, after Lumen, he finds himself needing acceptance from the one person he can't imagine betraying him: his foster sister, Debra.  Things with Dexter, however, are never simple.  Two-shot.  Elements from 6x11, so...spoiler, a bit.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Dexter, or anything else. So this is fanfiction, and I'm not making any money.**

**A/N: Dexter is a lot of fun. The writing style just comes naturally to me, and there's nothing I like more than a good sociopath. I think this is one of, if not the, longest chapter I've ever written. Coincidence? Maybe, though I did spot a few places where I was tempted to end the chapter. But I think the end result is fairly good.  
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><p>It's funny, to me, which means it's not funny to anyone else, that my sister was once again betrayed by a member of my family. First it was Rudy, Brian, Biney. Now me. I watch her unconscious body under the tight shrink-wrap and wonder: does it have to be this way? Can't I just go back to the way things were, before Brian, Rudy, Biney, before Rita and Harrison and Lumen? And the answer comes back from the other driver in the car that is me, and that answer is no.<p>

I've tasted what freedom is. I knew it when Harry was alive, I knew it with Brian, with Miguel, Lila, Lumen...Arthur, to some extent. I know what it's like to be known for what I am and accepted as such. Everyone has had different reasons for accepting me, and they've done it in different ways, to be sure. Harry tried to teach me, control the part of me that scared him. Brian wanted to do the opposite, remove Dexter, leave only the Dark Passenger. Miguel wanted a dupe, Lila thought she loved me, Arthur found a kindred spirit. Lumen needed someone to hold her hand along the way, she needed someone to support her own weak Dark Passenger, and that person was me. But every one of them betrayed me. Harry died, Brian tried to kill Debra, Miguel tried to kill me, Lila tried to kill everyone else I was close to. Arthur killed my wife, and Lumen...Lumen left me when I needed her most.

She understood me, better than anyone else, I think. She had her demons, but they were focused – everyone else never really got what it felt like to have that urge, the itch, the other driver who you can never stop, only direct. But her Darkness left her, and she left me alone. Again. And now that I know what it's like, I can't be alone. I can't go back to the way things were. So I'm turning to the one person who's always been there for half of me, the half that's raising Harrison, the half that's social, polite, smiling Dexter. My foster sister.

Will she forgive me? I can't tell. Betrayal is a tricky thing. Sometimes it can be forgiven, sometimes not. Sometimes there's no going back. Maybe she'll take me in. She's the one I'd want to take me in. She might even get a promotion from it. That would be nice. She'd be happy then, maybe. Dark Disturbing Dexter locked away, Dear Darling Debra rising through the ranks of Miami PD. One big happy family.

The man next to her is less important. He's my usual prey. James McAllis moved to Miami after murdering his ex-wife in an abandoned cabin. He became a new person when he moved here, but kept the nasty habit of ending the lives of women. Nobody could ever get enough evidence to point to McAllis, at least through the usual means, but I'm different. Different Dangerous Dexter. I don't need warrants.

The smelling salts do their usual duty and wake up McAllis. I prepare him, slice his cheek, collect a drop of blood. I set the slide down. Debra doesn't need to know about the trophies. She might start looking, watching. Seeing when I added a new slide to my collection. Better she know as little as possible until I know how she will react.

McAllis is whimpering now, pathetic. He's telling me all about the women he's killed, begging, pleading for me to spare his life. I ignore him like I've ignored the rest. It's easy, once you realize that they're just repeating the same things that get them out of court and back on the street, playing the crocodile tears when faced with the consequences to their actions. I simply move over to Debra, lying on her own table.

I like the shrink-wrap on her. It's ironic, I think, because no matter what happens tonight, she will survive. I couldn't hurt my sister, not physically, but I need the comfort that can only come from hurting her emotionally. She has her vision of her brother, her perfect loving, caring, fatherly Dexter, who may be a bit weird, but genuinely cares about the people who inhabit the world. But I don't. Not all of them. Children, I suppose. Her. Cody. Astor. Harrison. The list is fairly small now. The other people I've cared about have left me, by one means or another.

I never regret not telling Rita. She was scarred, like me, but she dealt with it in her own way, and needed to believe I dealt with it the same. She never felt the urges to _hurt_, to _kill_, and she needed someone to share her romantic views of the world. She needed her gentleman, who was kind, and caring, and gave her the space she needed when she needed it. That was how she coped, and to be my real self around her would have shattered her. I truly believe that.

I prepare to wake up my sister. This is the moment of truth. Will she care for all of me? Can she reconcile the father with the monster? We shall see. I hold the smelling salts under her nose, and watch her eyes flicker open. The look of betrayal in them is almost palpable, and I shudder under the accusation. She can't scream at me because of the cotton in her mouth, but I can tell just from the way she looks at me that things will never be the same.

Good. That's what I need. Some change. Something has to happen. I can feel it on my skin, sliding across my thoughts. Change is in the air, and Dexter has control. This is the way of things, the way it is meant to be. All is right in the world. Except Debra doesn't know what's going on.

I put my finger to my lips, then cock my head in the direction of the other table. McAllis doesn't know what's going on. He is limited to looking straight upwards, and so he continues to babble about how sorry he is that he killed those women, how it will never happen again, so please let him go. It's almost enough to make me laugh, except that would freak Debra out even more, which isn't what I want. I want the reveal, the feeling the stage magician gets when he pulls away the curtain to reveal his beautiful assistant whole and unharmed. That feeling of release. It will be given to me, one way or another. One final betrayal, or one constant companion, who will never, ever betray me. This is me, testing the bounds of our link. Her love for me.

So far, things are looking up. She's listening to the ramblings of the serial killer next to her, and I can almost hear the wheels in her head turning. I smile down at her, a real smile, finally, one I don't have to fake, and flip the visor on my shield down. I tell McAllis that just like he couldn't help himself, neither can I: I have to kill him, it's nothing personal, but he deserves it and that's enough for me. That's when the whirr of the power drill starts. I move Debra's table so she's out of the spray of blood, and then turn back to the killer who's trapped like a bug on a cork-board. Deb may be out of the bloodspray, but she can still hear the whirr, and the screams as I begin my job. I can almost feel her retching in my head. Hopefully she won't actually vomit and start choking. She is a police officer, after all. Still, she's only seen the end result, not the means. This should be enlightening for her. A learning experience. This, Deb, is what happens when you apply a drill horizontally across the pectoral muscles. Note the way the skin is torn in a specific pattern. Hear the screams. Understand the pain.

When I'm done, I take the bags and pile them up. Then I cross over to my foster sister and smile down at her once again. The image I present with bloodstained gloves and apron must be amazing. I hope it is. This is all about showmanship, after all.

"Hi, Deb," I say to her. "It's me, your brother. I had something I wanted to tell you, but I figured that the picture would be worth a thousand words. So, an explanation, perhaps?"

I wait, as though she can actually respond, and she makes a muffled noise.

"When I was a young boy, I was traumatized by my mother's murder," I inform her dispassionately. I can be my real self now, and it's refreshing. Wonderful. Why had I let Harry persuade me this would be such a bad idea? Oh, right. I thought I had something to live for.

"I had the urge to kill. It started with small animals. Dad found out. He talked to me. Took me hunting, tried to satisfy the urge. But it got stronger. So he gave me a code to follow. Never get caught. Kill those who kill without justification. Always be sure of guilt. Blend in, fake emotion. Things like that. He told me that I should never tell you. I didn't. You had this image of nice, kind Dexter, and I couldn't destroy that. Not then. But...but I need to share myself with someone who won't betray me, who won't leave."

I look at her face. I can't read her, which I dislike. I need to know if she understands the choice I'm giving her. "I won't kill you, Deb," I tell her. "I'm rather fond of you, you know. I've been evolving. I chose you over my brother, did you know that? He had you set up, he wanted us to start a life together, as family. You would be our first mutual kill. I had the knife in my hand. But...but I chose you, and I killed him. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done."

I hope this is reassuring. I've never been able to analyze human emotion that well. "You have a choice in front of you, Deb," I tell her. I hope she's listening carefully. Things could go horribly wrong if she doesn't understand. "You could turn me in. I'd confess. You'd have caught a horrible serial killer, even when you had emotional attachments to him. You'd have been willing to sacrifice family for justice. Or you can try to accept me, all of me. Very few people have done that for me, Deb, and most of them have been killers. They've all betrayed me in some way. I've killed almost all of them. But you, you're my sister. We've stuck together, and whatever you choose, I'll follow you. This is your ballgame now."

I hope she understands now. I really do. I remove the cotton from her mouth with a pair of tongs. I wait for my judgment to be pronounced. I hear only silence. A faint breath every few seconds.

"Talk to me, Deb," I tell her. "Please. Say something, anything." I'm reminded of another scene, another woman, telling me the exact same thing. I threw a plate, breaking it, and let her walk out of my life. I still can't blame Lumen entirely. It wasn't her choice, but it still broke my heart. I needed to break something, pass the hurt along. Hopefully it won't happen this time. Hopefully I haven't broken my sister's heart. I truly am fond of her, and it would be a shame if that were to happen. I might even cry again. But I have to know. I need to know. So I wait for a response, and simply hope for the best.

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><p><strong>AN: Hmmm. Planned this as a oneshot with possibilities of continuation. Writing Debra's response is difficult. If you want to read more, let me know.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Wow. This took a long time to start, and then a little over a day to write. I didn't want Debra to be defined only by her foul mouth (although all the cursing is fun to write - where else can I get away with "holy fucking Jesus on a bike"?) Then I saw 6x11 and just like that I figured out where I wanted Debra to be coming from. Kind of strange that one episode would make me "get" the character...but hey, I can't complain.**

**Oh, and to all the people who wanted pseudo-incest (including me, actually): looks like you're getting your wish, both in this fic and in canon! How exciting!  
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><p><em>"Talk to me, Deb," I tell her. "Please. Say something, anything." I'm reminded of another scene, another woman, telling me the exact same thing. I threw a plate, breaking it, and let her walk out of my life. I still can't blame Lumen entirely. It wasn't her choice, but it still broke my heart. I needed to break something, pass the hurt along. Hopefully it won't happen this time. Hopefully I haven't broken my sister's heart. I truly am fond of her, and it would be a shame if that were to happen. I might even cry again. But I have to know. I need to know. So I wait for a response, and simply hope for the best.<em>

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><p>She looks at me, and then curses. "<em>Fuck.<em>"

It's so Debra that I laugh for a second. Normal people modulate their voices. Their faces contort, showing whatever various emotions they experience. I don't have to pretend anymore, and it's refreshing. I can let down the mask and be Dark Dangerous Dexter, the lethal Avenger. I can laugh my real laugh now, and I never realized just how much I wanted this. Debra is my sister, and now we can be honest with each other like siblings are supposed to be.

"Fuck, Dexter," she repeats after a few seconds. "I don't – just – shit."

I take a knife – four and a half inches of serrated steel, a gleaming sharp blade – and start removing the cling wrap.

"Was it you?" she asks. "With number thirteen?"

I nod, smiling. I'm proud of my work with Lumen. That might be the reason she isn't dead like everyone else who knew my secret. "Yes. I helped her out with her little problem."

I've removed the top half of the plastic and move down. Even when I'm not pretending to be a human being, I still remember what emotions I should be faking: embarrassment at seeing my sister in the nude. It appears that she has forgotten this emotional response as well. Then again, Darling Debra Dearest does have more important things on her mind, like whether or not one of us is going to die tonight.

"Are you fucking with me, Dex?" she asks, sitting up. "Because if you are I'm gonna get real fucking pissed."

"No games, Deb," I reply. I'm in balance, driving with the Dark Passenger. The shadows are grayer, everything in a sharp focus that has an alien beauty. I feel flat, dull. When I'm Deeply Devoted Dexter I feel inflated, like a balloon before it pops. When I'm being myself with my victim, I'm sharp and deadly. Now I'm stuck somewhere in the middle, and it's at once more satisfying and more bothersome than either of the faces I put on.

The last bit of plastic falls away, and it seems that Debra recovers some sense of modesty.

"Dex, why the hell am I naked?"

It's one of the things I do. I have a routine, a ritual. It's one half Harry, one half me. Harry taught me how to not get caught. I took his teachings and made an art out of them. A tapestry of blood and death and beauty that sates the beast beneath my skin. I inject my villainous victim and bring him or her to the kill room. I don't discriminate based on gender, race, or disability. Dexter, the equal opportunity killer. Murdered somebody? Give me a call, I'll take care of all your problems!

I take off my client's clothes. Blood soaks into them, and it's not as fun. I love the way the blood runs over skin and plastic in little rivers of red. I use saran wrap to restrain the flavor of the week, and then I confront them with their sins. A little bit of justice, to be sure, but mostly I love the look in their eyes. They recognize their works, and know that they have brought their fate on themselves. It doesn't stop them from pleading, of course, but it works to halt the petulant crying they sometimes do.

The next part is spontaneous. While the rest of my work is meticulously planned, the actual kill is free verse, a collection of beautiful red lines of poetry. Today I used the power drill and rotary saw. Next week might be a knife to the chest. I never know until I let the Dark Passenger out to play again.

Once the fun part is over, I clean up after myself. I collect the parts I've separated and put them in nice black plastic trash bags. I take down all the plastic wrap and put it into other trash bags before taking the collection out to sea and dumping it offshore. This is my ritual. This is artwork at it's finest.

"It's just what I do," I respond.

Debra does not look appeased by this answer. "Holy fucking Jesus on a bike, _it's just what you do_?"

"Yes," is my response. From the look on her face, it is not what she wants to hear.

"Where are my clothes?" she asks suddenly. People do this when they are discontent with a line of questioning. They seem to think that simply changing the topic will change the answers they are given. People are strange.

"Over there," I point. She still hasn't answered my question. "Are you going to turn me in, Deb?"

She walks over to the pile of clothing that is in one corner of the room. "Fuck, Dex, you've always been there for me. How am I – fuck."

Deb swears a lot. I don't understand it, but chalk it up as one of those weird normal person things.

"I'm still here for you," I remind her.

"You won't be if you're dicking around on death row!" she snaps.

Can it be? Can she really accept what I am?

"Promise me something, Dex," she says suddenly. "Don't fuck around with me on this one, okay? Just fucking promise me you won't be like – like _him_."

"I killed him for you, Deb," I say. This should explain everything, shouldn't it? How can I be like _him_ – and we both know who she means, even though she doesn't say it, she doesn't need to – when that's the entire reason I killed him?

"Promise me," she insists.

"I promise," I say. It's silly. From a sociopath, promises mean nothing. I don't care about my word, just like I don't care about the majority of the people inhabiting this planet. But it means something to Debra, so I say the words anyway.

"Good," she replies, and it sounds as if that's that.

She knows me.

She accepts me.

In my mind, this is beautiful. I have sated the Dark Passenger and Dearly Devoted Dexter in one night. I am a killer and a brother, and to Debra, I am finally both.

I take down the plastic on the walls and ball it up into another black trash bag. I open the door from the room and carry a few bags outside and into the trunk of my car.

When I return, Debra is still standing in the middle of the room. "How many times?" she asks.

"One hundred nine," I reply instantly. It's one of the numbers I know by heart. My phone number, Debra's phone number, my address, and the number of people I've killed. I pick up more trash bags and make another trip to the car.

When I return, there's only two more Hefty bags. "Come on," I say, and Debra follows me outside. She's still reacting, still processing news, which is okay, because she's already decided the most important thing to me.

She's staying.

I drive out to the boat, and when Debra sees the name she nearly chokes. I'm about to ask if she's alright – I would be sad if she asphyxiated right after seeing what I am – when she vomits over the pier and into the water.

"Fuck, Dex, that's sick," she says.

My boat is the _Slice of Life_. I find the name amusing. Apparently that's just me.

I lead her on board and take us out to my usual dumping grounds. I start tossing bags overboard, keeping one eye on my sister. It has occurred to me that jumping overboard that far out to sea would be fairly deadly. Harry couldn't stand what he had created; can my sister survive the encounter?

She watches me and doesn't make a move for the side of the boat. Apparently she can.

"We're both fucked up, aren't we?" she asks suddenly. "Jesus on a shit-stick, that makes two times I've fallen for a serial killer."

I nearly stumble throwing a bag off the boat.

Rudy, Brian, Biney. And...

And _me_.

We really are fucked up, I realize. She's a foster sister, so it's not as taboo as if we were blood-siblings, but it's still fucked up. Like us. Like me.

"Compared to chopping people up and dropping their body parts off a boat, your problems don't seem quite as bad," I say. It's true. If other people know of Deb's secrets, she won't be on Death Row. For some reason, people are more upset about serial killing than pseudo-incest. Good for Deb, not so good for me.

This makes Debra laugh, though she doesn't sound as though she's actually happy or amused. "Great fucking benchmark, Dex. _At least I don't kill people_. Inspires a lot of confidence."

I toss the last bag over the side of the boat and start steering back to Miami. I have a special place in my heart for the city that facilitates my Dark Passenger. Special thanks goes to the city of Miami, I couldn't have done it without you.

"I mean," Deb continues, "you're not like me, right? You don't – you know –"

"Love you?" I ask. "I don't feel things like normal people do. I'm fond of you. I'd rather you didn't die. I like it when you're happy." I shrug. "Past that? I'm fairly apathetic towards _everyone_, Deb. I don't think I can really love anyone."

She inhales through her nose. "Right. Stupid me."

I step towards her and gently grab her face, angling it to look at me. "Hey," I say. "I have the strongest feelings for _you_, Deb. I'm not normal. I don't really feel like everyone else. But this is as close to love as I can probably get."

We kiss, then, of course. It was entirely calculated on my part. Increasing our proximity, a comforting tone and message, an affirmation of my feelings. All designed to facilitate that reaction. If Debra loves me, she is less likely to have regrets or leave me.

I dock the boat and we step off together. How fitting. We have both revealed our secrets, she and I, Dark Deadly Dexter and Dependably Darling Debra. Arthur was wrong. Harry was wrong. Acceptance is possible. I am free.

And I revel in the feeling as I step onto the pier.

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><p><strong>AN 2: First completed multichap fic (even if it is only a two-shot). Thanks to Jeff Lindsay for coming up with such a fantastic character and writing style. Thanks to Showtime and Michael C. Hall for a beautiful show that never falters in its intensity. Thanks to the reviewers who inspire me to write more and more stuff, even when I think it's drivel. And, oddly enough, thanks to my grandmother for getting me hooked on Dexter in the first place. You're the best grandma I know.  
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